


Something Like This

by Prismatic Bell (Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor)



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (All Media Types)
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/F, Fluff, It's fluffy adorable awkward sex is what I'm saying, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Realistic, Slightly Awkward Sex, That's all that's here, That's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/pseuds/Prismatic%20Bell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ami's waited two hundred years for this. She's done waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Hm.
> 
> . . . be gentle, it's my first time? (No, really, I've never written porn before. Not without significant amounts of fade to black, anyway.)
> 
> If you should happen to be under the age of 18, and you clicked this anyway, 1) this is the adult putting in a token protest about how You're Not Supposed To Do That It's Very Bad Of You (like I never did the same thing), and 2) just kindly do not let me know you were here (that includes leaving kudos, because I can see your username). I'm opting not to make this visible only to registered users or to disable anonymous commenting. I choose to leave my stuff open because as with parents who let their 14-year-olds watch stuff that's rated R, I believe your mileage on what you can and can't handle may vary. Please don't make me regret it and have to lock down my work, okay?

“That was amazing,” Mako sighs. Ami leans her head on Mako's shoulder and looks out over the ballroom, where Serenity and Endymion are chatting with some dancing couples and the other Senshi are standing watch. Ami giggles a little and points to a plant behind a column. Mako ducks to see it from Ami's sightline and snickers.

“Is that—?”

“Kunzite and Zoisite,” Ami says. “I know it's not nice, but . . . ”

“Zoisite trying to reach his face in public isn't ever going to get old,” Mako agrees. “Are his feet even on the floor?”

“I think he's standing on the plate under the vase.”

I think he's doing ballet on the plate under the vase,” Mako tells her, and Ami laughs again. She was supposed to have duty tonight, but this morning someone beat loudly on her door and when she opened it there was a box with a printout of the guard plan taped to it, Ami's name scribbled out and replaced with Rei's, and _have fun that's an order_ scrawled across the bottom in Minako's trademark scribble. The box was a dark blue dress with no shoulders and a lacy silver barrette for her hair, and Mako's face when she crept into the ballroom was enough to make her glad she'd accepted Minako's judgment instead of picking something out of her own closet.

“Where's Chibi-Usa?”

“Pluto took her to bed a couple of hours ago.” Mako's arm winds around Ami's waist, and after a few seconds' thought, her other arm joins it. “We need to thank Minako.”

“I don't think she could've resisted,” Ami comments. “She's been over the moon ever since she found out about us.” She rolls her eyes at the memory, turns to look up at Mako's eyes. “Do you know she and Rei actually had a _bet?_ ”

“It doesn't surprise me,” Mako says. In the ballroom below, Serenity and Endymion have stopped talking and started dancing again. “I'll walk you upstairs.”

They go in silence, fingers twined between them. Mako's hands are warm, but not sweaty, and Ami secretly thinks they're perfect. It wouldn't be a secret, she thinks, if she could find a way to say so. When Haruka and Zoisite talk about their lovers, they speak in poetry as natural as the beating of their hearts; and Mamoru, of course, talks about Usagi more like a pilgrim at a sacred altar than he does someone who's been married for close to two hundred years. 

Ami talks like a doctor. Which isn't a bad thing, she supposes; it's useful for a lot of things. But one of those things is not talking about the length and breadth of Mako, her eyes and hair and hugs and heart. Lately Ami's found herself sitting down with Dickinson, and Tennyson, and the Sanjūrokkasen, trying to find the words she needs to describe the things she wants to say.

But Dickinson and Tennyson are no help when they reach her door and Mako pulls away, probably ready to kiss her goodnight and head for her own quarters, and all Ami can do is latch unexpectedly onto Mako's arm. 

“Do you want to come in?”

It's a ridiculous question; everyone living in the Crystal Palace has their own quarters ranging from the opulent to the basic, but Ami's are downright sparse—a bed and closet in one room, a loveseat, a desk, a bookshelf, and a hot plate for tea in the other. There's a small refrigerator only because Mako and Usagi insisted she might get hungry. There's no reason for anyone to spend time in Ami's room. Even Zoisite, who goes out of his way to get into every nook and cranny he doesn't belong in and make himself at home in everyone else's space, usually raids the small refrigerator for sweets and wanders out again.

“Yeah, sure.”

Ami's quarters are small, and it occurs to her only after Mako plops down on the loveseat in a way that shouldn't be possible in a formal dress that everything in them is set up for one: a hot plate instead of a real kettle, a loveseat instead of a sofa, a small closet, a twin bed. She tries to crouch to open the refrigerator—pauses—hikes her skirt up over her knees and tries again. There's a bottle inside she didn't put there, and she reads the label before smiling and shaking her head.

“Something wrong?”

Ami hoists the bottle. “Somebody dropped by and left wine in the fridge.” She flips the tag on the neck. There's nothing written on it, but—“And I'd bet that someone is Minako.” She pulls out the pair of glasses and the corkscrew stowed neatly under the wine and makes for the loveseat, filled glasses in hand. “No alcohol.”

“Somebody knows about your medication.” Mako takes a sip, then blinks at the glass. “And wine. This is really good.”

“Mm.” Ami tries her own, leans into Mako's side and kicks off her slippers. Mako curls around her, and Ami goes limp. John Milton could have written about paradise regained had he ever sat in the circle of Mako's arms. 

She can feel Mako's fingers in her hair, and after a few minutes she reluctantly picks up her head and shakes it. “If you keep that up, I'm going to fall asleep on you.”

Mako chuckles and drops a kiss into Ami's hair, and Ami feels her eyes flutter shut again. She twists and hikes herself up with Mako's shoulders to return the kiss, takes a breath when she feels Mako's lips part and pushes her glasses up with one hand so she can reach for the sticks holding up Mako's fancy twist to free her hair. Mako's fingers, usually so nimble and graceful with small things, fumble the clasp of Ami's pearls four times before giving up. Ami smiles against her lips, traces them with her tongue and catches her breath when Mako tilts her head and opens her mouth. Someday kisses this deep might stop surprising her—someday. Maybe. Part of her is convinced they never will, and she's fine with that.

They twist and shift on the loveseat, trying to find a position that accommodates both of them without leaving half of Mako hanging off the seat, and finally Ami slides to the side and tries to pull Mako up to stand. Instead they bump noses and almost fall on the floor, and all Ami can do is grin sheepishly and fix her glasses and tuck one of Mako's curls behind her ear.

“It works better in the movies,” she says, and Mako laughs before taking her shoulders and kissing her again. Ami stands on her toes and runs her fingers through Mako's hair to break up what's left of the spray in it, feels Mako's hands leave her waist and travel up her spine, silky fabric bunching under her fingers to come to rest in the small of Ami's back, and Ami catches her face in both hands just in case she decides to pull away. 

Mako's knee slips between Ami's thighs, and she breaks the kiss in shock as _something_ lances up her spine and down into her belly. She tries to reform the thought— _something_ is the kind of thing she imagines she would've found scribbled out in the margins of her notebooks at some point between Mako and the Black Moon—and realizes there isn't anything else.

Tennyson isn't any help with that, either.

Instead she looks up into Mako's face, all concerned eyes and frightened mouth, and puts a single finger on Mako's lip to try to bring back her smile. “Bed,” she says, and she meant for it to be a question, but somewhere between the wine and now her voice went low and twisted out of her control like a kite on a windy day, and when she takes a breath to try again she realizes nothing better is going to come out. 

Mako's smile doesn't return, exactly—but something in her eyes changes, softens, and she nods. Ami's breath comes out in a rush as Mako pulls away and takes her hands.

The bedroom is dark, and Ami's light crystal needed recharged four days ago. There's no good excuse for having not gotten to it yet except that she's been working nights and hasn't really noticed a want for it, but Mako takes one from the living room and slips it neatly into the niche on the bedroom wall without comment before sitting on the bed. Ami tries to follow suit, but the bed is a little too tall for her in a dress this tight, and at last she hikes the dress up to her hips so she can sit down. Mako laughs a little and slips a hand under the hem before Ami can pull it back down, and they fall backward in a froth of satin and organza that tangles around their legs and leaves them both giggling again.

“Nobody should ever let me try to be sexy with _anyone,_ ” Ami laments. Mako cups her breast, hand warm through thin satin, and kisses her forehead.

“I think you're doing great,” she says, and chuckles when Ami reaches down to disentangle their legs. Mako barely has to reach to take Ami's hand and pull it back up between them before kissing Ami's nose—lips—neck, and Ami is fairly certain she's going to die and she will do it happily, hands tangled in Mako's hair. 

She slides a hand down, finds Mako's zipper buried under her hair and pushes it all to the side so she can yank the zip. It sticks, and Ami nearly screams in frustration. Mako pauses the _incredible_ things she's doing to Ami's collarbone to raise her head.

“You have to pull the shoulders up at the same time, it's one of those invisible— _Ami!_ ”

There's too much weight to Mako for Ami to move her easily, but she manages to shift enough to try scraping ineffectually at Mako's skirt with her feet. One of Mako's slippers falls off under a sudden onslaught of underskirt fabric, and Ami reaches between them to push the bodice down to Mako's waist, where it catches on something that isn't her hips. This time Ami does groan—throws her head back on the bed and lets out a sound once reserved for badly-written trigonometry proofs. She hears Mako's chuckle into her ear and wonders if it's worth trying to turn a wounded gaze on her to make her get rid of the rest of the dress. There's a low _snick_ , and when Mako tumbles to the side and pulls Ami with her there's a low purring sound and—

Ami's body isn't nearly as impressive as Mako's, all muscle and curves. Ami is still a waifish little thing who buys her bras from the Juniors department, and she hears Mako gasp when her dress sags and flops between them like an empty sheet.

There's no such thing as a strapless bra that comes in Ami's size, so tonight she just went without.

There's a moment so long Ami is pretty sure it must involve the Time Door, and then Mako lays a single hand on her breast again, this time without the dress between them.

Mako's wearing a bra. Mako is wearing a bra that looks like she could go to war in it, and possibly use it as a shield, and she looks incredibly embarrassed about her bra. 

Ami leans into Mako's hand, and kisses her, and fumbles behind Mako's back for the clasp. The straps slip down her arms, and Ami pulls the bra away, only to run her fingers over Mako's side, more than a little horrified.

“They go away,” Mako offers, and Ami has never, _never_ heard Mako so nervous. She sounded more confident facing down Galaxia than she does with Ami staring at the bright red grooves etched into her side—a heavy one beneath, a lighter, round one above, marking out the band and the arm hole. “It's just because I'm so big—”

Ami is sure there's a perfectly rational reason for those marks, which is not the same thing as a _good_ reason. Nothing that leaves marks like that can have a good reason, and when she presses her fingers into them Mako squirms. 

“Ami . . . ”

For the briefest of moments, Ami considers hitting the brakes and telling Mako her skin needs to breathe. And then she wonders how many times someone else has sat and stared at the lines in Mako's skin, and she kisses them, instead—kisses the part where the thicker line curves under her breast and rubs at it with her thumb, trying to coax the skin out of its angry mistreated state and back to its own lovely color. Mako's skin reminds Ami of the acorns from the tree she calls on when she attacks, and she likes it that way.

Mako's hand slides from Ami's breast to her waist, pushes at the fabric pooled there until Ami offers her own free hand to help. No secret rebellion under the dress' lower half—just plain cotton so mismatched with the dress Ami's a little surprised Minako didn't bother supplementing her underwear drawer. She finishes pushing Mako's dress over her hips and hears both of them hit the floor with a soft _shush_ sound. 

Mako tilts Ami's head, kisses her again, nips at her lip and laughs a little when Ami nips back. Ami slides a hand up Mako's side—cups her breast—hears Mako let out a soft _oh_ against her lips, and when Ami brushes a thumb over her nipple she _whimpers_.

It probably wasn't for Ami's benefit, but if the flush it sends down her body was any more obvious, they'd be calling for firetrucks. Instead she kisses Mako's neck, nips at the skin, and suddenly has a vivid flash of a series of scarves Mako's worn throughout the years after dates and moves first to her collarbone, and then the expanse of skin beneath it.

Neither of them work tomorrow until the afternoon, but it doesn't hurt to be prudent.

She kisses the swell of Mako's breast, feels her shift uncomfortably and raises her head. Mako looks suddenly troubled. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The look doesn't fade, and Ami props herself up on her elbows. “Are you sure?”

Mako hesitates, and Ami goes rapidly through a mental checklist. She definitely said bed, Mako definitely said yes, there was no real discussion of what to do when they got there but Mako was the first one to touch, even used her weight to pull Ami down on the—

Oh. _Oh._

Ami slides her hands out from under her slowly so she can rest her weight on Mako's stomach without flopping on it like Minako on any piece of soon-to-be-broken furniture, and cups Mako's face.

“You know,” she says, and a little voice deep in her head reminds her that she is a woman of science, not poetry; “you know. I was on the Moon when they made Naru regent in Old Silver Millennium. I don't know where you were, it was some incredibly classified thing Minako wouldn't talk about.” She brushes a thumb over Mako's face. “It really was just as beautiful as we remembered, and I still think you're the loveliest thing on two planets.”

Mako flushes, and then she says: “Ami, the moon isn't a planet.”

“I'm nervous, I'm terrible at giving compliments!” Ami laments, and after a single tense moment Mako giggles, and then Ami giggles, and then she lowers her head and flicks her tongue across Mako's breast and the giggles suddenly raise up into a stuttery moan delectable enough that Ami has to do it again.

She's still chasing every curve and line of Mako's chest, fingers coaxing dark brown skin into little pebbled nubs, palms testing weight and texture, lips and tongue taking in the sweet-salt taste of Mako's skin, when she feels fingers slip into the top of her underwear and brush against her hip and then _stop_ , curling back a little like they're ashamed to be there, and she looks up again. Mako lets out a whimper of protest.

“I don't know how much clearer I can make this,” Ami says, and waits until she's sure Mako is looking directly at her. “ _Yes._ ”

Mako's lips curl up in a grin, and her fingers hook into thin cotton and tug. Ami rocks her hips to slide the fabric down, and Mako's fingers slide between her legs before she can even get her underwear down to her knees. 

Ami says something. It might be “oh god.” It might be Mako's name. It might also be gibberish. Something vital between her brain and her mouth shut off when two fingers much larger than her own slipped inside of her, and she's pretty sure whatever it was, she's not getting it back. Mako crooks her fingers, and Ami lets out an unexpected cry that makes Mako snort delighted laughter and she thinks she may not _want_ to get it back. Instead she kicks until her underwear slide far enough down her legs for her to hook one over Mako's hip and tilt her own hips against Mako's hand with another string of scattered syllables. This one, at least, has Mako's name in it, and Ami reaches for Mako's underwear.

She means to shim them off Mako's legs the same way she did her own, but instead she slips her hand between Mako's legs, runs a single finger along the crotch of her panties and lets out a startled noise on top of Mako's low _oh_ when her fingertip encounters damp. 

Either Mako has terrible taste in underwear quality, or—

Ami's fingers beneath the fabric encounter not just damp, but slick. Mako is wet, and she's been long enough to soak through her underwear. Ami feels Mako's fingers stutter inside her and pulls her hand away so she can slide Mako's underwear over her hips, kisses Mako's breast again and then lowers her head to Mako's stomach and the broad expanse of untouched skin there, muscle showing just beneath in contrast to the soft belly Ami is never going to lose. 

There's no way even Mako is tall enough to reach for what Ami has in mind, but she'll live.

In her head, Ami slides neatly off first Mako's fingers and then the bed and lands in a nice, soft cushion provided by Mako's ridiculous multilayered skirt, impressing her vast audience of one with her grace and precision.

In reality, she tumbles sideways and slams her head into Mako's knee.

She's not even entirely aware she's probably hurt Mako until she hears Mako say her name, and when she looks up she blinks, hard, at her sudden inability to focus on Mako's face. Mako's fingertips brush her face, catch on the stem of her glasses, and then Mako swears and Ami lets out a startled _oh_ and runs a hand over the floor. There's carpet in here, at least; they won't be broken. Her fingers latch onto thin wire, and she settles her glasses back on her face. Mako is staring down at her, eyes concerned, fingers brushing over Ami's temple like she's afraid something is broken in there.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I—Mako, I'm _fine_ ,” Ami protests, as Mako leans forward and turns Ami's chin with a single hand to take a closer look at her forehead. “Is your knee—”

“Fine,” Mako says, and Ami gives her the best disapproving look she can muster. “I'm more worried about your head.”

“I'm not,” Ami tells her, and presses a kiss to the red spot on Mako's knee where her forehead connected with the inside of the joint. Mako lets out a kind of fond _mmm_ , and then Ami pushes her knees apart and the _mmm_ becomes an _oh_.

She kisses above Mako's knee, and then her thigh, and then realizes her glasses are going to be _terribly_ in the way and pushes them up into her hair before leaning forward and cupping Mako's rear in both hands, a twin set of lovely golden curves, to hold her still.

She needn't have bothered, she realizes, when Mako's hands tighten on her shoulders and her breathing sinks into a groan. She may have just rendered Mako unable to move with nothing but her breath. 

Ami has read on anatomy, and stimulus, and taken multiple human sexuality courses, and not all of that reading was strictly for her classes, which is good, she thinks as she parts her upper lips against Mako's lower ones, because a great deal of it was wrong. None of it, for example, came even close to accurately describing the scent, one of old books and earth, or the taste—which, Ami has to concede, may well be because she can think of absolutely nothing to compare it to, her ears too full of Mako's moans, her brain too focused on Mako's hands tangling in her hair and the pearls they never actually did get unclasped, relishing the round of Mako's pubis against her nose and cheek while Ami quietly undoes her at the seams.

Most of all Mako is uniquely _Mako_ , occasionally forcing her grip to relax before she leaves bruises on Ami's shoulders and probably leaving them anyway, tension running through her legs like wires instead of relaxing and letting them fall aside, coming back to herself enough to pick Ami's glasses out of her hair and set them on the nightstand before grabbing Ami's hand and lacing their fingers together, her sounds low and half-caught in her throat, fingernails digging into Ami's back almost hard enough to break skin when her hips suddenly stutter forward and Ami has to tilt her head and substitute fingers for tongue before she finishes off tonight's entertainment with accidental teeth.

Mako lets out a low keen, and Ami rests her head on Mako's thigh, strokes her fingers absently along the curve of buttock and hip. Somewhere under there is the muscle that connects to Mako's leg, that makes her kick and run and dance. Ami tries to tie the thought together with something more flowery and fails. With Mako satisfied, Ami is more aware than ever that she gave up Mako's hands on her to be on her knees, on the floor, in a pile of formal fabric, and the warmth in her face and chest and between her legs is distracting, at best.

She feels Mako's hands under her elbows and puts her hands on Mako's arms to help herself to her feet; she wasn't on her knees that long, she doesn't think, but she's still not steady, and when Mako pulls her onto the bed and wraps long brown arms around her Ami thinks she's never been so grateful.

Mako strokes her back, a long sweep from shoulders to waist, and then she presses a kiss to Ami's lips, and then her breast, and slides a hand between her legs again. She feels the insistent press of Mako's fingers and lets out a quiet sound, and then a louder one when Mako twists her hand to run a single thumb over her clit at the same time.

Ami tries to put the feeling into words. She manages about five of them—two, she's pretty sure, in the wrong order—when Mako chuckles into her ear and kisses her cheek.

“You think too much sometimes,” she says, and then runs her tongue over the shell of Ami's ear, and Ami _shrieks_ like someone just doused her with a bucket of ice water—the effect is the exact opposite, but the suddenly-startled nerves are exactly the same, and she probably leaves nail-prints in Mako's shoulders when Mako's fingers twist inside of her at the same time, but she doesn't, _can't_ worry about it, not with the taste of Mako still on her tongue and Mako urging her first up to the brink and then over it, fingers working and lips kissing and Ami thinks she may be dying.

The first thing she notices on the other side of orgasm is Mako's hand on her back again, the same slow gesture up and down her spine. Her skin tingles, her legs tremble, and she has the vague sense that actually closing them might hurt in odd ways that aren't exactly pain. Mako's hand leaves her back and twines into her hair, and Ami sighs. Mako makes a soft sound that sounds like amusement.

“Back with me?”

Ami ponders. “It's different when it's just yourself.”

Mako actually laughs, tugs Ami closer, and then slides her knee between Ami's when Ami lets out an uncomfortable noise. Better. “It's different when it's someone who knows what they're doing. I wasn't expecting it either.”

“Haven't you . . . ?”

“Not like that.” Mako's arms tighten around her waist. “Next you're going to tell me you learned that out of a textbook.”

Ami lets the pause spin out into a silence before she answers. “Some of it?”

“And the rest of it?”

Ami bites her lip and looks down and feels her face grow hot. Mako makes the amused noise again.

“The next time you spend forty minutes in a meeting not saying anything and staring at your tablet I'm going to start reading over your shoulder.” She kisses Ami's cheek. “I need to go wash my hands.”

Ami catches her wrist, and Mako pauses. Ami feels herself blush again.

And then she reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a pack of wet wipes. 

Mako snorts aloud, but manages not to say anything until the two of them are under Ami's blanket.

“Just how long ago did you put those in there?”

“I've always had them in there.” She should put on pajamas. She should offer Mako a shirt. She should suggest a shower for makeup and sweat and spit. 

She rests her head on Mako's arm and slides a hand around her waist. Mako kisses her forehead.

“Are we both going to fit all night?”

“We might have to stay like this,” Ami tells her. “Pity.”

Mako laughs into Ami's hair. “Awful.”

“Intolerable.”

“You know more synonyms than I do.” Mako's hand slips out of Ami's hair and slips the catch on her pearls, coils the double strand and plops it on the bedside table. “Is it—all right if I stay?”

“I hoped you would.”

Mako sighs and buries her nose in Ami's hair.

“I love you,” she says, and Ami smiles against her neck.

“I love you too.”


End file.
